


Ulyc

by andromedasgalaxy



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Fluff, The Razor Crest can not catch a break, and nor can its occupants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedasgalaxy/pseuds/andromedasgalaxy
Summary: With the Razor Crest's temperature control practically self-destructing, you find yourself in a sweltering mess amongst the boiling ship. But sometimes good things come from even the most uncomfortable situations.Cross posted on tumblr under thegildedquill.This was for the Mando'a Mandalorian Writing Challenge. Check out my tumblr for more info!
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 163





	Ulyc

It wasn’t just hot, no, it had surpassed hot _hours_ ago. The metal of the cargo hold practically sizzled whenever you accidentally brushed up against it, and you half expected to see steam wafting off the thin fabric you were using as a barrier against the heated steal. No, this was not hot as you had known it, this was _sweltering_. 

Your usual flight wear had long since been abandoned, replaced by old threadbare shorts and a tee that was far from appropriate for anyone’s gaze. Hair stuck to you, that constant layer of sweat refusing to budge no matter how much water you consumed, nor how much you splashed desperately over yourself from the ‘fresher. 

It was beginning to affect your mood too, making your responses short and concise, sharper than they might have been otherwise. There was no room left for your usual warmth and patience, it had been burnt away from you as time passed, searing the very nature of your being from you.

Of course you empathised when the child would coo unhappily at you, arms reaching up to you as if a hug would help his discomfort. It must be so much harder when you didn’t understand why the Razor Crest was suddenly akin to Hell’s Inferno.

You had tried to keep him cool, dousing him in water, a constant myriad of cooling focused on him as you suffered silently. But as the hours drew on each call of discomfort only played on your already frayed temper. 

You could only hope, pray, _beg_ the maker that this ceaseless torture would somehow end soon, that you would find somewhere safe to make repairs, that the damn hyperspace engine would come back from overheating when the temperature control had claimed it, and would allow you to travel once more at a normal pace. 

Logically, you knew you could call up the ladder, could ask if you were nearing your destination, if it looked like this hell would end any time soon, but you thought better of it. 

Din had been in just as much hell as you when he had trudged up the ladder, accepting your suggestion that you stay separate throughout the trip so he could remove not just the beskar that weighed him down, but the helmet that clung to his face too. You couldn’t disturb him now.

He had been so wary, so anxious to leave you alone in your suffering. His worry had shown in the small movements you had come to look for, had come to learn in a desperate attempt to understand your companion where usual tactics were lost. It showed in the way he dithered in his movements, shuffling on his feet, reaching out for you just like the child did, barely coming to his senses as his hand was nearing your cheek, ready to wipe away a bead of sweat that had made itself known. It was only when you pushed the canteen filled of cold water into his hand, only when you turned and began to rid yourself of any unnecessary clothing that he finally felt compelled to leave you. 

If you sought him out now, if you called up into the cockpit you knew all his anxieties would come back, he would worry for you when he had to focus, and you were determined not to be a distraction. But that didn’t mean _you_ weren’t worried. It had been hours now, hours since the temperature rapidly rocketed up, hours since he had taken that single canteen of water into the solitude of the cockpit. Surely he needed something else to drink, surely he needed a break.

Your thoughts were interrupted, however, when yet another sad coo echoed through the cabin. The child was desperate, wanting attention and comfort even though the touch he craved would only make the suffering all the worse. You had tried to explain it to him, tried to speak in soft words as you showed him slowly that the hugs he sought out would only increase both of your temperatures, would only make the horrid stickiness of sweat glean fruitfully. But he would hear nothing of it as his little arms reached out for you.

A sad smile, sympathetic, perhaps a touch irritated, played on your lips as you gave into his pathetic whimpering. It wouldn’t help in the long run, but you couldn’t let him suffer alone.

The child clung to you gratefully, a small heat-pack you did not need adding to your raised temperature. But he was calming down now, even though you knew damn well that he couldn’t be any more comfortable than you.

You had resorted to soaking fabrics in water from the ‘fresher, using them as cooling packs against the back of your neck, and wrapped around the child’s head, a desperate attempt to keep from overheating too much. But now, with the child tucking in against your chest, seeking out the comfort he knew so well, the cold liquid of his temporary bandana pressed tight against you too, adding the slightest relief against the hot blooded little being.

Perhaps this wasn’t _too_ bad. And at least now he was beginning to settle, those large eyes faltering in an attempt to stay open, exhaustion finally starting to plague him. It had already been a long day, a bounty having caused more trouble than expected on a practically inhospitable planet, the seemingly easy task having stretched out for days, days of no sleep, of high emotions and tension. The last thing any of you had needed was the ship overheating on the way back to Nevarro, in fact it was quite the opposite of the peaceful evening flight you had hoped for.

You almost wished you could find that same peace, that same place of exhaustion the child was reaching quickly in your arms. Wouldn’t it be nice to simply sleep through the heat? To wake up safe and sound and _cool_? Even Nevarro, with its chaotic weather, lava spilling freely, would be more acceptable than this hellscape. 

But the cooling effect of the wet fabric against his head was losing its power, and with the evening out of his breath, you simply _knew_ you had to put him down to sleep. He’d be more comfortable in the long run, curled up in a thin blanket instead of seeping in the heat that radiated off of you.

The little hovering [pram] was completely out of the question, too small and condensed, with the blankets only helping cocoon the heat in. But then, the little hammock he knew so well was hardly any better. It was better aired, yes, but in order to keep him comfortable, and to keep him from potentially falling out, it too was layered in blankets.

_When the hell did the Razor Crest get so many damn blankets everywhere?_

You weren’t entirely certain what prompted you to do it, it wasn’t that you thought he’d be mad if he found out, if anything he’d be more logical about it than you were currently capable of being, but you still hesitated as you looked at the cot Din used for sleeping. It was harsh and coarse, but it had some give to it, allowing for enough comfort for the little one to remain asleep and able to spread out.

But even as you put the sleeping child down, your brow furrowed in discontent. It wasn’t that the fabric was _itchy_ per se, but it certainly had grown old, any comfort it once held long washed out of it. The slightest give of the canvas below didn’t help either, it held no real support or care, and you were starting to understand how it was Din could sleep so easily in the pilot’s chair, or sitting upright on the ground… or just about anywhere really. Had he _ever_ slept comfortably?

To be fair, your own sleeping arrangements were no better. Having refused to take the small solitude of his sleeping quarters, if you could even call them that, when he had offered, you had bunkered down on the floor, a nest of blankets and clothing that worked somehow as a bed whenever you got the chance to rest. It was easy to pick up, easy to push back into a bag and ignore during the day, and you weren’t even certain whether or not Din actually _knew_ , or for that matter cared, where it was you lay your head at night.

You kept the shutter open, even the thought of how much worse it would have been with it shut in the small enclosed space making you cringe uncomfortably. This way he’d at least have some air, and you’d be able to keep an eye on his little sleeping figure as his entire being shifted with each easy breath he took, falling further into his dreamland.

For something so difficult, he was incredibly cute, especially when his little beady eyes were closed, his mouth pouted open with little snores escaping him. He looked content, almost happy in his sleep, and you could feel the irritation from earlier beginning to ebb away at the peaceful sight.

The sound of static shook you from your revery, causing you to turn suddenly in alarm. Only when the sound of a voice, not quite as distorted as usual, but still grating through your communicator, followed, did you begin to relax.

“I’m coming down,” the words were simple and straight to the point, and if his tone held a touch of nerves, you wouldn’t be the one to bring it up.

You nodded in answer, your mind slow from the heated haze, before you cleared your throat in realisation that he obviously couldn’t see you. A few steps and a rush of material later, and you found the communicator you only used when he was away hunting a bounty under your discarded flight-wear. 

“Ok,” you spoke into the small device, moving further into the cargo bay, nearing the ramp to give him as much space as possible. Only when you were on the other side of the hull did you bring it up to your lips once more, realising he would need more than that, and attempting to reassure the both of you as you added, “my eyes are shut, and covered.”

You dropped the communicator onto a nearby crate as soon as the words were out of your mouth. With your back facing the ladder, your eyes squeezed shut so tightly it was almost painful, and your palms covering them dramatically, to make sure he was aware they were covered, you waited.

Time passed slowly, and logically you knew it was most likely just your thoughts that made it feel that way. You had never been in the same room as the Mandalorian without his helmet, had never even considered it a possibility. Hell, had you assumed too much? What if he was only giving you the warning so that _you_ would be decent? What if he had every intention of putting his helmet back on before coming down to face you, despite the discomfort it would bring.

There was no reason to think he would be comfortable enough around you that he would risk something so important, or trust your words. Sure, you had been travelling with him for some time now, had even fought by his side, if somewhat chaotically as you didn’t _really_ know what you were doing. You trusted him with your life, and you liked to think he trusted you with his, but that didn’t mean he had to trust you with _this_.

A life is a life, it’s something sacred and precious and unlike anything else. You would protect him and the child, just as he would do the same for you. But at the end of the day, it was the same for any innocent soul, wasn’t it?

His beliefs, however, they were something different. Special and ingrained in his very being. They shone clear for the world to see, secret in their depths, but loud in their importance. Every sight of that helmet was a reminder, every time he would hold back or care for his weapons with more reverence than you had ever seen before, it only reconfirmed just how true that was. 

_This is the way._

It was repeated often enough that you had no problem accepting it. For him, it was simply a fact. And that included having his helmet on, being sheltered from the world, even the child he called his foundling.

No, expecting him to remove his helmet, even when you assured him you were doing what you could to help protect his creed, was impetuous at best.

The sound of his boots hitting the ground shook you from your fears, loud and distinct, intentional even. He wanted you to hear, wanted you to know he was down now, and the lack of an explanation only further proved your thoughts right. He had to be without the helmet.

You tried to shake the thought from your mind. It might have been overly presumptuous, but it was done now, and you’d just have to deal with any ramifications later, when you were together and no longer practically melting into the metal slates below.

Silence drew on.

Your eyes were closed tightly, and you could feel sweat running down your forehead, threatening to follow your creased up features and sting them through gaps you could not fathom. But you refused to relax, refused to smooth your stressed forehead, to calm the crunched up lines that were practically creating caverns for your sweat to run down. It didn’t matter if the salty wetness stung your eyes, didn’t matter if you were only causing more sweat to form, your eyes were going to remain dramatically closed, even behind your raised palms, even as you had your back turned to him.

He’d be done soon, you reckoned with yourself, mentally following a droplet of sweat as it desperately attempted to cool your sweltering forehead. There was no way he’d stay down here longer than necessary, no way he’d risk further exposure.

But then, why didn’t you hear any movement?

There was no rush of water to drench his cowl, no metallic clinking of the ‘fresher door that _refused_ to move silently no matter how much oil you gave it. There was no sound at all.

Since the moment his boots had met the metal floor, all had been silent.

“Mando?” you called out into the darkness, worry playing on your tone. He had to still be there, you would have heard him leave, would have heard him move. Even in his quietest moments, when he would move so swiftly, so deftly, you had learnt to attune yourself to him. You might not hear his steps, but his cloak would sway and ruffle against itself, his armour would scratch against its straps… Even now, without the armour you were so used to, you were sure you’d hear _something_.

But the silence reigned on behind you, the Mandalorian stock still, barely hearing the way you turned the nickname into a question of its own.

He was transfixed. Without the interference of his visor he could see you, _really_ see you, and that alone would have been enough to capture his attention. There were no displays of temperature, no shifting images or dulled colours, you were there before him, natural and pure. It would have stolen his breath at any moment, a sight he longed to keep in his mind forever.

But this wasn’t any other moment. Your baggy flight-wear was long gone, the layers you usually kept yourself covered in, _protected_ by, had been discarded the moment he had moved up the ladder. Now he was faced with something new, something he could never have imagined, and something that was making a permanent home in his mind.

Your back was to him, but he could still see so much. Your legs peeking out of those old shorts seemed so much longer, so much more enticing away from their usual confines. Your t-shirt was stuck to your back, showing every dip and curve, giving a view of your body he had never come close to before. Sweat made your skin glean in the low lights of the cabin, enticing and captivating, and his mind was filled with images of your skin just as slick from sweat, but under such different circumstances; under _him._

 _“Din?”_ his name came out soft, quiet, unsure. It was rare that you used the name aloud, only in moments of true fear or worry, moments you knew only he could hear you, or moments you worried even _that_ weren’t possible.

The sound of his name, so worried, practically _pleading,_ jolted him from his thoughts, and behind you a rush of fabric sounded, the stoic Mandalorian moving this way and that, turning from you as if he was desperately trying to remember _why_ he had come down in the first place.

“I-” his voice was rough and restrained, the single syllable forced out of his dry throat as he looked down to the empty canteen in his hand. He cleared his throat, the sound reverberating through the silence without the filter of his modulator, deep and gravelly. If you hadn’t had your eyes closed before you _knew_ they would have closed of their own volition at the raw sound. “I won’t be long.”

Was he reassuring you, or himself? He didn’t rightly know. But somehow he needed to say it, needed to confirm he would be back in the safety of the cockpit soon, away from the tantalising sight that had stolen his attention, away from the danger of you potentially turning around, of breaking his creed.

Your nod was almost robotic, reluctant in its jolted movement, and you could only hope he saw it because words were failing to form in your mind. So _that’s_ what he sounded like without the modulator playing with his tone. It was oddly warm and comforting, softer than you might have expected; but then that was a reoccurring theme, contradicting with the tough Mandalorian you had expected when you had first boarded the ship. 

You were right, you could hear his movements, even when they were softer than you had come to expect. His boots where mandatory, it was just downright dangerous to be on the ship without them, as you well knew, but aside from them, the sounds he made were different. There was no shifting of his cape, no grinding of beskar against itself, no fabric rustling as it gathered against his many layers. Everything seemed muted. 

The focus you had put on his helmet, or lack there of, suddenly seemed so much smaller as you came to the startling realisation. He was probably no more dressed than you were, attempting to alleviate the heat and rid himself of his usual attire that would have had him sweltering. 

With the sound of his canteen filling, water sloshing against the sides, your own throat felt suddenly dry. What did he look like? What was he wearing? He was always so covered, so protected, but now, in the sweltering heat, he was more bare than you had ever witnessed, and in a way, you still were no witness to it.

Would his skin be on display? Would his fingers be freed of the gloves he usually wore, the smallest, most tantalising and distracting display of skin free for the world to see if only they should look?

It was such a small area to focus on, especially when you knew his face, of all things, was uncovered too, but somehow there was a mystery there, brought to life over months of curiosity. You had seen the way the arm of his shirt would shift against his gloves, never quite showing any skin no matter what he did, and it was hypnotising. Somehow it had grown to something more than curiosity. 

You could wonder all day over what his face might look like, what colour his hair might be, or the depth of his gaze. But his wrists held possibility. You knew you would never know the beauty of his face, never hold the image of him in your gaze, but the same was not necessarily true of other parts of him.

Perhaps one day you would know the tone of his skin, whether his fingers were soft from the protection of gloves, or calloused from the never ending work he pursued. Perhaps you would feel his hand against your own.

It was a small dream, but one you could not seem to shake as time went past, and the curiosity of the man hidden by beskar only grew.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, wondering over what he might look like, over what he might feel like to touch now that he had removed so many layers of cloth, but the thoughts distracted you from his movements and the sounds he made. They distracted you from how quiet the hull had become as he once more lost himself to the silence.

The touch was feather light, dancing against your bared shoulder so carefully that you weren’t entirely convinced it was real. But still, it jolted you from your thoughts, bringing you back to reality with a sudden jump. He was still there, those relaxing sounds of him teetering about the hull gone, replaced by that same silence that had dawned when he first descended.

It had been light, gentle, eerily careful, and you couldn’t quite place _what_ had happened. It felt too soft, too giving to be his hand or glove, almost plush against your skin. So quick to touch you, and so quick to leave, but it had your head spinning. It almost felt like a-

“I’m sorry,” the words danced against your skin, warm breath caressing where he had touched. You could feel the movement of his lips with the gentle statement, only confirming your hopes. 

He was there, his lips had met your shoulder ever so lightly in the gentlest of kisses, and he was _apologising?_

Your silence hung heavy in the air, only making the heat all the more unbearable as tension steeped into it, but your mind was foggy and words were hard to grasp. How could he be sorry? It wasn’t his fault the cooling fans had ceased to work when you reentered space, no more was it his fault when the hyperdrive followed its path to destruction. He couldn’t have expected it any more than you could, and, in all honesty, if it lead you to this moment, to hear his voice unfiltered, to feel his lips caress your skin, it was more than worth it.

But that intoxicating warmth from his body behind yours, the heat that should have been uncomfortable was dissipating and suddenly a barrage of thoughts came crashing down in your mind. What if he wasn’t apologising about the heat, what if he wasn’t apologising for the torturously slow manner you were creeping towards Nevarro. What if he was apologising for ever so much as thinking of pressing his lips against your heated skin.

Your mouth hung open awkwardly, not able to grasp just _what_ he was apologising for, and leaving too much silence as a lack of response. You could hear him now, gathering the now full canteen, readying to depart once more up the ladder and back to the solitary confinement and safety of the cockpit.

“Wait!” the word escaped you, sharp and far louder than you intended, startling the Mandalorian who was lost in his own thoughts.

The decision was made without conscious thought, in fact, you were as surprised as he to find yourself moving carefully towards him. Your eyes were still closed so tightly it was almost painful, and you could only hope you were going in the right direction as you gingerly took a step forwards.

His movements had stopped, and you took that as a sign that it was alright to continue as you quickly stepped forwards once, twice- your knee hit the corner of a crate. The pain was sharp, aggressive, and every instinct in you wanted to open your eyes, if only to glare at the offending item that had hindered your movement.

But a gentle hand was on your wrist, almost timid in the way he held you now, a silent reminder that he was there. It was enough to pull you from your thoughts, to keep your eyes closed tightly, despite the jeopardy it put you in around the sharp edged crates.

“ _Ulyc_ ,” the word shouldn’t have sounded as beautiful as it did. It was ugly, coarse and harsh, but his tone was so warm and gentle, as if it had slipped out from him without a seconds thought as he began guiding you around the crate. “Careful,” this time the word was clear, for you, not him. It was subtle and soft, and somehow it matched that odd word perfectly, with just as much care and intent.

But you couldn’t put too much focus on what he had said, not when your senses were currently feeling so very overwhelmed. The heat had already done a number on you hours ago, but now there was so much more to distract you.

The sound of his voice, closer and clearer than it had ever been before almost brought a smile to your lips, and you desperately tried to etch the sound into your memory, to never let the softness of his tone leave you. But it wasn’t the sound of his voice that captured your attention this time, no, it was touch.

 _His_ touch.

His hand was still grasped around your wrist, allowing you to hold his wrist in return as he lead you around the sharp corner of the box, and you could feel _him._ Skin against skin, no gloves holding him back. You could feel the light callouses of his fingertips as they held you, sure but gentle, a guide without force. Warmth, subtler than that of the ship itself, radiating from his touch.

You almost stumbled again as his movements came to a stop before your own, and _was that a laugh?_

At any other time you might have pouted, crossing your arms before you in mock offence at his finding your stumbling so damned amusing. But his laughter was so rare a treat as it was, and now, without the shield of his helmet between you, without the raspy modulator shifting the tone, you could _hear_ it, soft and sweet, akin to a hum, and you were smiling shyly before him.

“Are you alright?” the question was barely above a whisper, carefully controlled, but still lingering in the air with unwavering care. Oh, how that damned helmet stripped him of such emotion in his voice, how dare it deprive the world of such a gentle tone?

You nodded in reply, suddenly glad for the fact your cheeks were already heated from the overall temperature, and therefore could not give away the additional emotions you felt as his honeyed voice dripped over you.

With one hand still in his, and the other draped over your face in an attempt to cover both your eyes at once, you found yourself at something of a loss. Something would have to give, and while you desperately didn’t want to loss the feeling of his hand against yours, you knew that your other hand’s position was simply too important to adjust.

A slight frown on your features had his heart racing in fear, worried you were now coming to your senses, ready to give him the berating he deserved. His own lips mimicked yours unintentionally, slipping into a frown as his fears began to grow. But he refused to take his eyes off you, refused to lose the sight of you there before him, pure and free.

Your hand began to move against his wrist, and he was ready to drop it, refusing to acknowledge the disappointment already dwelling within him at the slight shift. But your hand did not fall from his, did not even leave his skin. Instead, it traced lightly against his arm, feather light, as light as his own touch had been, as you found your way to his shoulder.

The frown was lifting from both your features, a small smile playing on your lips, curiosity playing on his own as he watched in wonderment, trying to figure out what exactly you were doing. Broad shoulders, strong and stiff under your touch, the feel of his t-shirt gathering and falling under your touch, and then skin once more as you reached his neck.

You could feel his gulp against your hand, the same nerves that had his shoulders so tense now clenching his jaw as you took your time simply _feeling_ him. If you had continued upwards, you might have felt the way his brow had furrowed in confusion and anticipation, might have felt the way his lips had opened in silent question.

But as your hand found his jaw, he found himself nestling into the touch without thought or intent. It felt natural, calming, and suddenly he could understand why it was the child was always craving your touch. If he had craved the feeling of your hand against his beforehand, it was nothing to how he felt now that he had experienced it. It was intoxicating, even in the stifling heat. Addictive and condemning all at once, and he couldn’t seem to control the way his cheek pressed into your hand, especially when he watched the smile on your lips only grow at the action.

You were leaning forwards, following the guidance of your hand, finding him in your temporary blindness through blissful touch, and it was magnificent. 

Fears that he would push you away, that he would regret his actions too deeply for you to ever reassure him slowly crept away as he leant into your palm, as his hand that had held yours began to trace its way along your forearm, only to stop uncertainly at your shoulder. He didn’t push you away, didn’t pull you towards him either, he merely held on; letting you control whatever was happening here, and embracing it.

His breath was against your skin, warm and lilting, and before you knew it, it stopped altogether. 

Closer than you had ever been before, you paused, careful not to knock into him with your arm still pulled over your eyes, giving him every chance to pull away.

“Don’t you _dare_ apologise,” your words were rushed, but determined, leaving no room for argument. It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order, a clear statement that you simply were not accepting such a thing from the man you had come to care so deeply for.

But even with the determination of your words, you still hesitated to move, worried that it was _you_ who were overstepping now. 

What if it had simply been an action of no thought? What if he hadn’t apologised for the thought of upsetting you, but rather for ever kissing your bared shoulder in the first place? It was so damn hot, it was hard for you to think straight, what if the same was so for him, and his actions were born not of desire, but a simple lack of thought?

His hand shifted from your shoulder, thumb running over it once in an almost soothing manner, light and careful as were each of his movements in the odd sweltering abyss you found yourselves in. He lifted his touch from you, and you couldn’t help but gulp back the fears the shift brought. But before you could begin to overanalyse, to fear you had overstepped, his hand was back, finding a spot against your waist that felt _too_ perfect. It was warm, his hand only further adding to how your top stuck to the curve of your waist, but you never wanted it to leave. It felt natural there, comforting, reassuring, and simply _right._

His thumb moved uncertainly against you, an attempt at reassurance from a man who simply didn’t know _how_ to be reassuring. It was awkward and jilted, but it was genuine, and the attempt had you smiling shyly. 

The arm that covered your eyes shifted, your hand moving to cover them instead, to allow more space, and before you had even finished the movement, he was there, taking up the space with those lightning fast reflexes you had come to adore.

His lips found yours fast, so fast that it pulled the breath from you in a rush. It wasn’t sweet and chaste, nor lusty and skilled. There was nothing perfect or refined about it at all, in fact. But his lips were on yours, pulling a searing and fervent kiss from you, eager and awkward, unpracticed and desperate.

You couldn’t help but smile against his lips as you shifted slightly, allowing yourself to find a more comfortable position against him all while kissing back just as eagerly.

It was nothing like you had dreamed, neither romantic nor suave, but it was flooded with raw emotion, with relief and care and an absolute thrill of excitement, and you found yourself losing yourself to the sensation as he relaxed against you. 

It wasn’t until you were truly desperate for air that you pulled apart, a goofy grin on your lips that was reflected on his own, unbeknownst to you.

“No apologies,” he agreed with a soft grin of his own as he took in your features leisurely. His forehead came down to press against yours tenderly, his eyes refusing to leave your features for even a second as he seared the blissfully happy sight of you into his memory.

And somehow, even with the heat of his body against yours, with his forehead drenched in sweat that had trapped your hand between you, the heat simply wasn’t as unbearable as it had once seemed, in fact, it barely registered at all.


End file.
